book of missing wings, 12 dancers [aphrodite, orpheus, canto, fresno, haiti, plato, stearns, zygote, hayden, emily, moonbeam, hazel]
We walked backwards in the snow thinking we missed epiphanies, not understanding until much later that this was strange.
Time’s fractures required resetting after the plummeting stairs.
Love translated the traffic-clogged tollbooth into teal sea-covered fog.
In a black and white film the hero swims through clouds.
He was tired. He pushed on the gas. He opened the sky.
[Someone else’s tragedy can be so interesting.]
One lands at one point—and another, another.
The frozen dead rabbit isn’t an omen, but we didn’t tell anyone.
Bunny, we hope it happened fast.
Garlands of pink lilies circle her decisive death, accolades for a bewildered priestess.
Some ghosts wrap silver shawls around our shoulders.
Scientists claim that without a human cerebral cortex, fish can’t cry, but poets know that their tears fill the oceans.
The house becomes the main character because we need it so much, its defunct cartography.
Some desire aloneness, that feeling of omission from the pack.
Bunny, we’ll have a proper burial once the disease has quelled.
The finest minds are determining reasons for the sudden deluge of frogs.
In the crowded parking lot an artist pushes his unfinished painting uphill.
We want to tell him that the canvas expanding is beautiful, but early night is spilling, blurring a turn from languid towards.
The hemlock had been self-chosen.
We woke without any recollection of where we had been or knowledge of what to disclose as personal.
It was a documentary of mourning, a book of missing wings.
[No one meant for any of this to happen.]